In My Darkest Hours
by Dhani Harper
Summary: The camp is inundated with wounded on one of the coldest days in Korea, leaving Father Mulcahy to battle the elements as he tries to make sure that every departed soul has had their last rites, but nearly ends up in the same condition.


Title: In My Darkest Hours

Characters: John "Dago Red" Mulcahy/Hawkeye Pierce (not slash)

Rating: PG

Summary: The camp is inundated with wounded on one of the coldest days in Korea, leaving Father Mulcahy to battle the elements as he tries to make sure that every departed soul has had their last rites. His dedication, however, lands him in the same condition as some of the wounded, and Mulcahy finds himself the personal patient of Hawkeye Pierce.

Author's Note: This is just a one-shot I did with the M*A*S*H characters from the movie rather than the TV show. My favorite scene of the movie is where Hawkeye is offering a little comfort to Mulcahy and touches his head, so it inspired a little hurt/comfort fic. I hope I did them justice. Also, please ignore any glaring typos.

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><p>Winter had hit South Korea with a vengeance. It was as if Mother Nature had joined in the war, intent to wipe out all who stood in her way. The current round of causalities at the 4077th had been her latest victims-coming frostbitten, gangrenous, and half frozen on top grievous wounds caused by bullets and shrapnel. Already, the camp had lost 7 men, 3 of which had died in transit to the MASH unit. The numerous bodies meant that the live ones were moved inside while the deceased were left out in the cold.<p>

Among the fallen men was one man: Father John Mulcahy. As the camp's chaplain, it was his duty to give the last rites to every body that had perished prematurely. That particular part of his job was never easy, and whenever there were multiple casualties, such as now, he felt wholly overwhelmed.

The sky was a dull gray as clouds settled into the valley that housed the 4077th, making the air thick and wet on top of the bitter cold. There was a light drizzle that couldn't quite be called rain, but wasn't exactly snow either.

_Sleet._ Mulcahy thought as he looked up at the clouds for a brief moment. He pulled his hat a little more snugly on his head, adjusting the ear flaps so they kept the stinging needle-like rain from hitting his frozen earlobes, then pulled his jacket a little tighter around him before he focused on the body of a young man, laying prone at his feet.

Mulcahy knelt down, drawing the small bottle of anointing oil from his pocket and nearly dropping it.

"Darn…" he muttered, shaking his numbed hands to try and regain some warmth and feeling in his fingertips. He didn't wear gloves whenever he gave last rites, which was almost suicidal during the winter months in Korea, where the temperatures dropped below freezing during the day. He blew a warm breath against his fist, then opened the bottle, kneeling down beside the body and performing the sacred ritual of death.

"…in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti. Amen." He finished the Latin prayer just as the triage doors swung open and two corpsmen carried out another body.

"Got another for you, Red."

Mulcahy sighed, looking at the string of bodies he still hadn't yet gotten to. When he'd come to Korea, hoping to make a difference in the lives of others, envisioning soldiers lined up for his sermons…this hadn't been what he expected. This was the worst kind of Hell imaginable. He was supposed to be a priest, not the Grim Reaper.

He continued making his way to each of the men lying on the ground, his body aching with cold and fatigue. Though he didn't consider his job nearly as involved as the job of the doctors and nurses trying to save the lives of the other soldiers, he also bitterly thought that at least they were all inside with the heaters on.

As he dabbed another drop of oil on his thumb, he hissed slightly. It had burned. He looked at the pad of his thumb and saw that the cold had chapped his exposed hands and places over his knuckles were beginning to crack. Since his thumb had stayed somewhat wet from the holy oil, the skin had nearly frozen and cracked open, oozing a thin stream of blood.

Taking his scarf from around his neck, Mulcahy wrapped his hand, then continued on, using his other thumb to anoint the foreheads of the deceased. By the time he'd finished the last one, the drizzle of sleet had turned into a horrendous downpour of sleet and ice. Mulcahy could feel the cold invading his entire body, the wetness soaking his clothes. He made to stand up, but he felt as though his fatigues had been lined with lead and he dropped back down on his knees, bracing himself with one hand.

What he thought was just exhaustion was turning out to be something far more serious. He felt sluggish and weak, his lungs burned from the cold, making him cough. He tried again to get to his feet, but took one step and stumbled back to the ground.

"Jeeze!" Mulcahy could hear Radar's boots squishing over the frozen mud towards him. "Father, are you okay?"

Mulcahy looked up at Radar, trying to answer, but his teeth chattered uncontrollably instead, his lips slightly blue in color.

"Captain Pierce!" Radar yelled. "Hey Hawkeye!"

"What's the matter, babe?" Hawkeye said as he jogged over, kneeling down in front of Mulcahy. "Gee, Dago, you trying to become a Pop-sicle. See what I did there?" Hawkeye grinned at his own lame joke, gaining a long-suffering look from the priest who dissolved into a fit of coughing. Hawkeye hooked his arm under Mulcahy's, helping him stand up. "Come on, Padre, let's get you checked out. How long you been out here in this mess?"

"I…lost track…of time." Mulcahy said between coughs.

Hawkeye led the chaplain into pre-op, sitting him down on one of the benches and pushing Mulcahy's wet jacket off his shoulders before tugging the cap off his head.

"What's with the hand wrap?" Hawkeye asked as he unwound Mulcahy's scarf from his frozen hand, seeing the red, chapped skin beneath. "You know this is meant to go around your neck, right?"

"Hawkeye," Mulcahy rebuked tiredly.

"Alright, alright, no more jokes. Take your pants off and I'll give you some scrub bottoms to wear. We need to get you warmed back up."

Mulcahy mechanically moved to take off his pants, not bothering to care about modesty as Trapper John and Henry Blake came in from the OR.

"Whoa," Trapper said as the priest dropped his trousers, toeing off his wet, muddy boots so that he could step out of his pants. "What's going on here?"

"Dago here thought he could get a little closer to the men we saved by putting himself in their condition," Hawkeye teased. "A little frostnip on his hands, and beginning stages of hypothermia."

"Did you listen to his chest?" Blake asked just as Mulcahy began coughing again.

"Not yet, I just got him in here and undressed." Hawkeye handed the weary priest a set of scrubs. "Off with the shirt, too, babe. Don't be shy."

Trapper went to his jacket hanging over Mulcahy's head on a nail and pulled out his stethoscope, sitting down next to the chaplain. He warmed the instrument with his breath as Mulcahy struggled out of his wet turtleneck. "Breathe like you mean it, Red."

Mulcahy drew in as deep a breath as he could before he coughed as Trapper listened.

"Sounds dry," Trapper said looking up at Hawkeye.

"His lungs are probably irritated from being cold and wet. We'll keep an eye on it though." Hawkeye said, pulling the priest up by his elbow and moving him next to the stove in the room. "Stay there for a minute, babe; thaw out a bit. I'm going to get some alcohol and bandages for your hands."

Mulcahy closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall behind him. Now that he was out of the cold, his skin felt itchy and irritated, burning as the blood vessels opened up again. A minute later Hawkeye was sitting down beside him, dabbing at the broken skin over his knuckles with alcohol.

"How you feelin', babe?" Hawkeye asked, noting the coughing had subsided for now.

"Better," Mulcahy replied tiredly as Hawkeye finished bandaging his thumb.

"You'll be alright; just stay out of the cold, huh?" Hawkeye gently nudged Mulcahy with his elbow and the priest looked over at the other man appreciatively.

"Thanks, Hawkeye," the soft-spoken Mulcahy replied. Hawkeye ruffled Mulcahy's damp hair.

"Come on, I'll walk you home." Hawkeye said, reaching for Mulcahy's boots and handing them over so the priest could put them back on. "I suggest bed rest for the next 24 hours. That goes for everyone."

Mulcahy didn't argue, but grabbed his wet jacket, holding onto it as he and Hawkeye slipped back out into the wintery mix, hurrying towards the Chaplain's tent. Luckily Radar had gone around and lit the stoves in all the tents, so it wouldn't be below zero inside as well as out. Hawkeye rubbed his hands together over the stove as he watched the priest hang his wet jacket, digging through his pockets for the tools of his trade—his pocket Bible, holy oil and purple stole. He laid them out on his desk, then sat down on his bunk to take off his boots.

Everyone in the camp had a soft spot for the camp's chaplain—mild mannered, soft spoken, naïve to a fault, but the purest heart in all of Korea. Though Hawkeye was sure Dago was a few years older than himself, he looked upon the priest as a kid brother.

"If you need anything, you let me know, okay?" Hawkeye told him as Mulcahy wrapped a heavy bathrobe around the scrubs he was wearing and found a pair of thick socks for his feet.

"Sure, Hawkeye. Thanks."

"Get some sleep, John." Hawkeye said with sincerity, the words striking the priest. He couldn't remember the last time anyone there had called him by his given name; it was typically Father, Padre, Dago Red, or some variation thereof. His first name coming from Hawkeye's lips sounded so foreign, yet so pleasant.

As Hawkeye slipped back out in the cold, Mulcahy slid under the thick mass of army-issue blankets piled on his bed, tucking in up to his chin. He tried not to think of all the bodies he had prayed over that day, broken bodies frozen by the unforgiving elements. He fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of a endless sea of dying men, hands outstretched, reaching for him, grabbing at him, pulling him down, down to meet his own death.

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><p>A hand landed on Mulcahy's shoulder. The priest gasped as if surfacing after too long under water, jolting upright in his bunk.<p>

"Easy, Dago," Hawkeye's gentle voice said soothingly, hand pressing a little more firmly on Mulcahy's shoulder to keep the priest from jumping out of his skin. "It's just me."

Mulcahy panted, looking up at Hawkeye with unfocused eyes. He was shivering, sweat pouring off of him. Hawkeye brushed Mulcahy's damp hair back and pressed his hand against his forehead. "Jesus, babe, you're burning up."

Hawkeye began digging through the medical bag he'd apparently brought in with him and pulled out a thermometer. He gave it few quick shakes before holding it in front of the priest's mouth. Mulcahy weakly opened his mouth, letting Hawkeye slip the instrument in and under his tongue, then closed his mouth gently to keep it in place as the doctor stuck his stethoscope in his ears, rubbing the diaphragm to warm it up before he tugged on Mulcahy's robe.

"Take this off for a minute," Hawkeye instructed. Mulcahy fumbled with the belt on his robe for a minute before he was finally able to shrug out of it, his teeth starting to chatter at the loss of warmth, tinkling against the glass thermometer. Hawkeye slid the instrument in his hand up the front of the scrub top Mulcahy was still wearing, listening to his heart and lungs, then lowered it back down and helped Mulcahy thread his arms back through the sleeves of the robe. After a minute, he took the thermometer from Mulcahy's mouth.

"102," he muttered, lips pursing in thought. "I hate to tell you, Dago, but I think despite my earlier efforts, you've managed to get the flu."

"What…time is it?" Mulcahy asked through chattering teeth, still feeling disoriented.

"About 1 o'clock." Hawkeye replied. "You slept through dinner yesterday and breakfast this morning. When no one had seen you by lunch, I decided I should come check on you. Good thing, too. Here, I brought you a little soup."

Hawkeye produced a thermos, and helped Mulcahy prop up on his pillow before he unscrewed the lid and handed it over to the ill chaplain.

"Thanks, Hawkeye. I hate to be a bother." Mulcahy said, sipping on the warm soup.

"Not at all, babe." Hawkeye assured him. "I am a bit worried about the fever though, so I'm going to have someone come by and check it every so often, and give a listen to your lungs. Do you feel okay otherwise? Any congestion? Aches? Coughing? Tightness in your chest?"

"Just chills, mainly." Mulcahy answered. "A little dizzy maybe."

"Alright." Hawkeye clicked his tongue in thought. "Well, drink that and then try and get some more rest. Don't go wandering around—number one, I don't want you ending up with pneumonia; and number two, if it is the flu, I don't want you passing it to everyone else in the camp, especially me. Seriously, why am I still here? I shouldn't be around sick people, I'm a doctor!"

Mulcahy gave a weak laugh, appreciating Hawkeye's brand of humor. Hawkeye's hand again went to Mulcahy's forehead, feeling of the fever, then brushed his fingers back through Mulcahy's soft brown hair. Mulcahy closed his eyes tiredly as Hawkeye's hand lingered, fingers lightly massaging his scalp. Hawkeye was about the only person in the camp who wasn't afraid of tactile interaction with Mulcahy. Dago knew it was nothing personal; just part of the territory of being a priest. People felt they had to act differently with the Padre around—though that seemed to not extend to drinking and womanizing. Though people weren't unkind to him, Mulcahy sometimes felt like they purposefully avoided him.

Hawkeye was the exception. While he was a self-proclaimed "devout unbeliever," and quite often at odds on the religious spectrum with Mulcahy, the two had an odd fondness for each other. Hawkeye was well-liked by everyone, and liked almost everyone in return—with the exception of one Frank Burns. He often referenced those closest to him as 'babe', and while he was jovial and friendly with everyone, he was often more touchy-feely with Mulcahy. Maybe the doctor sensed that the solitary priest needed the physical interaction, or maybe it was something born out of their strange kinship, but whatever it was, it was always a welcomed comfort in such a desolate place.

"Get some rest, babe." Hawkeye reiterated in a soft voice. "I'll be back to check on you in a little bit."

Mulcahy nodded, taking one last sip of the soup before letting Hawkeye cap it and set it aside. Though he'd slept almost 24 hours, Mulcahy still felt very fatigued. Sliding down in his bed, Mulcahy tried to find warmth beneath the blankets as Hawkeye slipped out the door.

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><p>Sleep had come just as easily the second time, but it hadn't lasted near as long. Mulcahy had woken himself up coughing so hard that he'd almost been unable to catch his breath. He sat up, and regretted it immediately as a wave of dizziness and nausea hit him like a mortar shell. He clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to take a deep breath in through his nose, but the sudden congestion in his chest only sent him into another round of coughing spasms, intensifying the urge to vomit.<p>

Throwing off all the covers, Dago stumbled to his feet, swaying dizzily as he tried to make his way to the door of his tent. He pushed it open and gasped as a gust of freezing wind tore through him. The deep intake of breath coupled with the cold air only added to his fit as Dago stumbled out into the night, managing to get two feet out the door before he fell to his knees. Mulcahy felt like he was going to asphyxiate himself between coughing and gagging. He was growing more and more lightheaded and dizzy, the ground was spinning under him, growing closer and closer into view before a pair of strong hands seized him around the shoulders.

"I've got you," Hawkeye's voice was in his ear, warm and soothing. "You're alright. Just breathe—in, and out, slowly."

Mulcahy was still gasping for air, but Hawkeye's gentle instruction was helping.

"Golly, is he okay?" Mulcahy vaguely heard Radar asked. His eyes flicked up to see half the camp standing around him and Hawkeye, worried looks on all their faces.

"It's definitely in his lungs now," Hawkeye said to someone else, ignoring Radar's question.

There was a brush of a hand against his clammy forehead.

"Ah, I can't get a good read on his temperature," Henry Blake's voice said. "My hands are too damn cold and he's too damn hot."

"We've got to get him into post-op and get an IV going," Hawkeye was saying. The voices were starting to grow dimmer as Mulcahy sat on the ground, supported by Hawkeye. "He needs fluids or he's going to dehydrate."

"…can't expose…to him…" Blake argued, his voice fading in and out.

"…leave him…"

Mulcahy could no longer make sense of what the doctors were saying. The cold was seeping back into his very bones and he started to shiver uncontrollably.

"Fine, I'm not arguing with you, Henry. He's going to die of exposure while we figure out what's better for him" Hawkeye said, feeling Dago's body wracking with cold. He motioned for Trapper to come give him a hand and the two men helped get Mulcahy back on his feet. "He'll stay in his tent, but get an IV over here pronto!"

Hawkeye turned them around and escorted the priest back into his tent, sitting him on the cot. "Go get my bag, Trap."

Mulcahy felt the hand on his left arm let go, followed by the sound of his tent door banging shut. He tried to lift his head up to look at Hawkeye, but groaned and closed his eyes against the continual spinning of the world before him.

"It's alright, babe," Hawkeye was saying as he pushed Mulcahy back on the cot, throwing the blankets over the priests body, then crawling over him to lay next to him. Hawkeye wrapped his arms around Dago, pulling the shivering priest against him and rubbing his hands up and down Mulcahy's back and arms, trying to fight off the chill.

"H-Hawk…"

"Shh, shh, shh," Hawkeye quieted the priest, hugging him close. "You'll be okay. Let Papa Hawkeye take care of you."

Mulcahy could feel another round of coughs coming on, but with Hawkeye's face inches from his own, he didn't want to cough his germs all over the doctor; though Mulcahy was pretty sure by that point Hawkeye was well and truly bathed in them. He tried to contain the cough in his chest, keeping his mouth closed, but that seemed to only make it worse. Mulcahy pushed away from Hawkeye, trying to turn over as he was overcome one again by a painful fit. His sides ached, his head felt like it was going to explode, and Mulcahy wondered if this was how he would die.

Trapper came in carrying Hawkeye's bag around the same time as Henry and a nurse came in with some other supplies, including the IV. As Henry and the nurse went about setting up the IV stand and preparing a needle, Hawkeye took out his thermometer again, sitting up with Mulcahy still against him.

"Open up, babe," his soothing voice said, brushing the hair back off Mulcahy's brow. This time, Hawkeye held the thermometer in place with one hand as he held onto Mulcahy with the other.

Hawkeye looked at Trapper and Henry. "We need to get him started on a round of antibiotics. I'm really afraid this is turning into pneumonia. It's too damn wet and cold here in the winter! It's a wonder we haven't all died!"

"Don't worry, Hawkeye," Blake said. "I've already given the orders, penicillin for the infection and hydrocodone to try and suppress the cough."

"Good, good," Hawkeye said, taking the thermometer from Mulcahy's mouth. "Damn…nearly 104 now. We've got to break this fever. I need some ice."

The nurse turned and hurried out. Trapper and Henry brought the IV stand over. Mulcahy was slumped against Hawkeye, breathing raggedly as the spasms died off. Hawkeye shook his head ruefully.

"15 degrees outside and I'm asking for ice."

"Let's get the IV in," Henry said. "Lay him down."

Those were the last words Mulcahy remembered hearing before everything went black and a strange feeling of drifting took over. Or maybe he was floating. It was as if he was in a river on his back, the water making him feel weightless. It was oddly calming, certainly better than the chaotic state he'd woken up in.

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><p>"How's he doing?" A feminine voice filtered into the peacefulness.<p>

"Better," Another voice answered. Hawkeye. "We got the fever to break last night and the meds seem to be holding it off, and suppressing his cough so he can breathe. He's still a little feverish, but definitely not in the danger zone anymore."

"Poor thing," a cool hand brushed against his cheek. "How are you doing, Hawkeye? Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I think I dozed off a few times, but I'm okay. Much better with you here."

The two voices grew lower into murmurs and whispers and the occasional giggle. Dago sighed softly as sleep pulled further and further away from him, taking with it that wonderful sense of calm and leaving him with a general feeling of infirmity.

"Shh…" Dago heard Hawkeye quiet his companion before the cot shifted and Hawkeye's hand was brushing Dago's hair back off his forehead. "You with us, babe?"

Slowly, Mulcahy squinted his eyes open to look up at Hawkeye's smiling face.

"Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

Mulcahy's eyes drifted up to the IV stand and saline drip perched beside his bed, following the tube down to where it connected to a needle taped into the back of his hand.

"Better…I think." Mulcahy said, his vocal chords raw from underuse, coughing, and a dry throat.

Hawkeye reached over to the desk, producing a glass of water and handing it to the priest as he helped the other man gently sit up. Mulcahy sipped the water gingerly. "You gave us all a good scare last night."

"I'm sorry. I really don't mean to be any trouble." Mulcahy looked embarrassed.

"It's alright; you haven't been. I'm just glad to see you back in the land of the living." Hawkeye teased gently. "You've probably got a few more days before this thing is totally gone, but I think the worst is over now. Your fever has been hovering at about 99-100, which is a lot better than it was. We've got you on some penicillin to clear the infection in your respiratory system as well as something to keep you from coughing up a lung."

"Thanks, Hawkeye. Has there been any more wounded since I was…"

"No, thankfully. I think the Christmas rush is finally over."

Mulcahy nodded, thankful.

"You did a hell of a job, Father," Hawkeye said, suddenly serious. Mulcahy met his eyes, surprised.

"I didn't really do—"

"I think you did more than we did in the OR," Hawkeye interrupted. "We lost a lot of guys the other day, but all the while we were sweating in the OR, you practically froze to death so that the guys who didn't make it got their proper send off. There's so much you do that goes unnoticed, Dago, and I'm sorry about that."

"I don't do this for the recognition, Hawkeye, but thank you. That…means a lot to me."

"This place would be hell without you," Hawkeye continued.

Mulcahy shook his head solemnly. "You're wrong…this place already is Hell."

Hearing such conviction from a man who could always find a ray of sunshine in every situation shook Hawkeye to his core. He wrapped his long arms around the priest and pulled the other man into a fierce hug, mindful of the IV still stuck in one hand and the glass of water in the other. It had been so long since anyone had hugged Mulcahy in any fashion that he nearly forgot how to reciprocate. He felt so frail within Hawkeye's grasp.

"I'm going to have someone bring you something to eat, if you feel up to it." Hawkeye said as he pulled back.

Mulcahy nodded, feeling the effects of such little sustenance over the last few days and Hawkeye ruffled his hair with a smile.

"Let's go ahead and get this IV out of you."

Hawkeye carefully removed the IV from the back of Mulcahy's hand, applying pressure with some gauze to staunch the bleeding before putting a band-aid over it to keep the gauze in place.

"Thanks," Mulcahy murmured as Hawkeye began clearing up some supplies.

"I still recommend getting some rest, but you don't have to stay in bed if you feel like moving around. I would like you to at least stay here until tomorrow just so the penicillin has time to kill off any contagions. Okay?"

"Okay." Mulachy nodded, worry showing in his creased brow. "Hawkeye, you've been rather close to me lately…what if I gave it to you?"

"Don't worry, babe, germs don't stick to me." Hawkeye said with a cocky grin and a wink. The nurse in the tent with Hawkeye was taking some supplies out and Hawkeye was about to follow suit when Mulcahy stopped him with a quiet voice.

"Hawkeye?"

He turned and looked at the priest, who looked infinitely better today than he had the past two days.

"Thank you," Mulcahy said with deep appreciation. "For everything."

Hawkeye looked at the floor as if debating something, then crossed back to Mulcahy, leaning down and pressing his lips to the top of Mulcahy's hair. "You know I love you, don't you, babe?"

Mulcahy smiled softly. He knew the meaning was not perverse, but brotherly. "I know, Hawkeye. I love you, too."

Hawkeye ruffled Mulcahy's hair one last time. "I'll be back later, Dago."

Dago smiled, watching Hawkeye leave. "I'll be here."

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><p>Fin<p> 


End file.
